If by the grace of something higher,
The stars are shining dimly,
On this city stretched below.
Cars whisper of running,
Leaves tell stories of the old,
The darkness sustains these tales,
Draws you in and leads you astray.

The stillness is comforting,
You pull it tightly around yourself,
Whisper that you need it,
That it keeps you sane,
Keeps you warm,
Whole,
Complete.

It's a lie.
You know that.
But you're always running,
Spinning webs of false truths.
Even your eyes no longer betray,
The coldness within your core.

Moths are drawn to a flame,
Like the thought of winter,
Draws you in and murmurs,
Sweet nothings that you hold dear.

My bitter one,
You're wasting,
Rotting,
Decay is falling from your lips.
Your face is writ with creases,
Folding paper,
Drawing lines.
You, as well, will soon be gone.